Love song for unaccompanied tuba

"Love Song for Unaccompanied Tuba"

What I'm there for, is to break the clarinet player's fingers. Not all
of them, just a handful. Mister Butterscotch is paying me fifty bucks a
finger. This clarinet player, or is it a clarinetist - I have no way of
knowing, owes Mister Butterscotch eight hundred bucks and has, to date,
shown no inclination to pay up.

There are a couple of other mugs in this orchestra owe some money that
they lost playing the horses, and this wise-guy clarinet stroker is
getting them all excited, thinking that Mister Butterscotch is someone
you can kiss off if you owe money to, some sort of cream-puff
guy.

Which is very far from the truth.

So, I'm about to earn two hundred bucks, scare some smartmouth college
boy kid into paying his dues, put the fear into some other college boys
and go off happy to eat scrambled eggs and strips of bacon at a little
place I know. Maybe drink a little bourbon, who can tell ?

I am not at this place to fall in love with a tuba player, but that is
exactly what I go and do.

She really is something. She has short wavy hair, kinda cherry
coloured, a real open face. I don't like women who have little tiny
faces, I like them to have something you can kiss at. She really is
something.

I only start looking at her because I'm bored, classical stuff isn't
for me, and she is easily the only thing worth looking at. What really
gets me is that she's playing the tuba - big golden instrument, looks
like it weighs more than she does and it sort of reminds me of an ocean
liner, all big pipes and tubes. There's not all that much call for a
tuba in the pieces this fancy orchestra is playing, so most of the
time, she's just sitting, waiting and occupying herself.

I've gotta admire her, what is it, dignity. She comports herself well.
She isn't sitting there looking bored, nor is she pretending to be
really interested. She looks more? I dunno, I used to play a little
football, you'll be surprised to hear I was a linebacker - I was built
like a side of beef even in High School. I used to sit on the bench,
waiting to go crunch people, almost praying our offence would screw up
so I could get out there and do my thing. But just along from me, the
guy on special teams sat - the guy who goes out to kick the field goal.
And he wasn't chewing up waiting to get on. He was just still, calm,
like he knew his time would come and he would get on and do a job and
do it well.

That's how she was, this tuba player.

She knew that there would be a time for her and that she would shine.
Better than all those saps who sat playing all night, note after note,
with no shining moment to speak of, why they were nothing more than the
wooden frame on a painting.

The longer I waited, the more I thought about playing the tuba. I was
sure I'd seen a film once where a big cream pie shot out of the tuba
and hit someone in the face, one of those pies that are bright yellow
like marzipan and have a heap of curled shaving foam on top. I wondered
whether her fingers would leave prints on the side of the metal, like
little ghost kisses. I really wanted to walk up there and say
afterwards, "Say Missy, why don't I carry this thing for you? " and
look to see her fingerprints.

This is getting mad, I'm not here to fall in love.

There is a technique to breaking fingers, so I thought about that as
hard as I could. If you just pull them, you only dislocate, which is
still quite painful, but the guy goes into shock before you can tell
him why you're doing it and how much money he owes. I find the best way
is to break all four in one go.

Boy, that tuba player really is something.

I look up and see that the clarineteer has made me, he's looking mighty
pale and shifting in his seat. He puts down the instrument, next to his
music and makes his way off the stage. Other musicians look at him odd,
but keep right on playing. What else would they do ? If this building
caught fire, a good musician would keep on playing.

He's skinny, but not as smart as he thinks and I catch up with him
around back. I sock him one in the jaw, which is for free, but he's
rubbed me up the wrong way entirely. While he's making kitten noises, I
explain to him that he owes money and it is polite to settle your
debts.

While I'm talking to him, I'm trying to figure out which hand. I want
him to pay the money, so he needs to earn. If he plays clarinet, he's
going to need his fingers to move up and down on the keys, or holes, or
whatever. What do I know about clarinets ? I've never held a clarinet
in my life. Which hand holds the thing steady and which hand plays the
thing ?

I ask him and do what is necessary to the other. He's sobbing and
hollering and I have to wipe a little sweat from my brow. It's hot in
there, that's for sure. And while all this is going on, I hear a noise
from inside the hall. It is the distinctive rounded notes of a
tuba.

I earn myself another two hundred bucks, but I'm still not happy.